


ghost inhale

by rissi (fullhousecast)



Series: Tumblr Requests [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Gay Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Dad, Marijuana, Mental Health Issues, Past Character Death, Self-Harm, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Triggers, Underage Drug Use, spider son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 09:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14830121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullhousecast/pseuds/rissi
Summary: Peter whipped around, too shocked to try and hide the blunt. The nanotech of the suit retreated into Tony’s chest. His mentor stared at him before he realized was Peter was doing. He sighed and took a seat next to Peter.Peter was shell shocked. Tony raised his thumb and forefinger to Peter. “Give me a hit,” he demanded.--Peter can't deal with this time of year.





	ghost inhale

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is the product of combining multiple requests.  
> this is NOT part of silver haze- it's completely separate.  
> trigger warning

 

**_Extended Response: Explain the feedback loop of the thyroid. Then, explain why the thyroid is essential in maintaining homeostasis._ **

 

> **_First, the hypothalamus releases thyroid regulating hormone..._ **

 

Peter set his pencil down. As much as he wanted to excel on his finals, exhaustion distracted him from studying. He genuinely couldn’t be fucked to get it done. The last time he checked the gradebook, he had a C- in biochemistry. If he failed the final, he would still get credit for the class and pass his junior year. He figured that was good enough.

 

Study guides and crumpled notebook paper spilled onto the ground as his arm dragged across the desk. He generally wasn’t one to let even the slightest bit of untidiness go unfixed, but the rest of his bedroom was already uncharacteristically filthy with disorganization. The laundry basket in the corner spilled over with loads of unwashed clothes, reeking with sweat. His bedsheets were verging on two weeks without being changed, tangled up with books and used towels he was yet to put away.

 

Peter slid out of his chair and laid among the mess of coursework. He pulled his fingers through the dusty piles of the carpet, blankly gazing leftward of the yellow ceiling light.

 

 _May’s going to be livid if you fail an exam. Good luck getting into M.I.T with your shitty grades, you lazy fuck. You have to get this done before you fuck up horribly,_ One part of him chastised.

 

He blindly felt around for a paper and read its title- ‘Sliding Filament Theory’- before crumpling it up and tossing it at the wall.

 

 _Whatever,_ the other part argued. _I’d literally rather eat shit than do anything right now. It’s not like high school makes a tangible difference._

 

He continued to run his hands through the carpet. There were eleven hours until his exam and nine hours until he had to go to school.

 

_If you fail, Tony’s going to think Spider-Man is a distraction and take the suit away. You can’t let that happen._

 

His powers were, in his opinion, his only redeeming quality. Being Spider-Man brought in a constant stream of both commend and criticism that had him frequently searching the internet for the newest comments on his alter-ego. It spawned a strange breed of catharsis that became the centerpiece of his wellbeing.

 

The thought of giving up the suit again made Peter sick. He snapped back into his desk chair, gripping his pencil tighter and tighter as fresh waves of anxiety befell him.

 

 _Then again, I really don't feel like doing this._ His anxiety-induced motivation quickly died down.

 

_Lazy, depressed, piece-of-shit fag._

 

The burning, numbing mix of anxiety and frustration had his mind screaming for a release; itching for a blade on his thigh or a blunt to his lips.  Each second of attempted focus had him approaching the boiling point.

 

The pencil snapped. He didn’t make a move to remove the splinters from his palm.

 

_Fuck this. I need to get high before I fucking kill myself._

 

\--

 

**iMessage**

**_Today, 10:31 PM_ **

 

_Peter: hey man you got bud?_

 

_Liam A: got some alien OG for 8 a g and gorilla glue for 10 a g_

 

_Peter: i’ll nab 4g gg. u mind grabbing me 2 packs of swishers_

 

_Liam A: sure pull up at 11_

 

_Peter: sounds good thanks_

 

**\--**

 

Peter chose to keep to the low ground on the way to his plug’s house, suit tucked securely away in his book bag. He’d sooner be mugged on the street than front the tabloids for pulling up to a trap for weed as Spider-Man. It was a bit of a walk, but the quiet buzz of the city lessened the intrusivity of his thoughts. He tapped the stinging, swollen skin of his palm where the shards of wood still remained.

 

May wouldn’t notice his absence- she never noticed much of anything around this time of year. Peter had learned to quietly keep his head down when the anniversary of Ben’s death rolled around. May would recede into a state of hyper-focus, pouring every ounce of her energy into compulsivity.

 

May would talk almost exclusively about cleaning. _“We have to wash the wall trim.” “Peter, I need you to re-vacuum the living room.”_ Peter stopped hoping for genuine conversation. Every interaction he had with May was a request to get something done.

 

As it turned out, his depression and anxiety didn’t mix well with May’s obsessive compulsivity. She took his lack of motivation as a personal insult. Leaving a dirty fork in the sink would earn him a session of tearful screaming from his aunt, leaving him to do nothing but passively take the heat. She spent hours on her feet wiping down tables while Peter took depression naps every chance he got. It was a toxic combination.

 

He turned a final corner and finally stood outside of his plug’s apartment. Liam slouched on the front step, standing when he saw Peter.

 

“Hey, man!” Liam greeted, lifting his hand.

 

 _Oh, God. He’s going in for a dap. I’m too white for this._ Peter returned the dap to the best of his ability, cringing a bit. “Hey.”

 

Liam frowned, sensing the awkwardness. He wordlessly handed Peter a styrofoam takeout box, and Peter slipped him two twenties.

 

“Thanks.” With that, Peter turned to leave. He usually wasn’t so short with his plug, but he wasn’t feeling all that chatty. His enhanced ears caught Liam’s quiet murmur of, “Bye?”

 

Peter was barely halfway home before his hands began to tremble again. He ripped open the pack of swishers, plucking out one of the cigarillos and lighting it. He reveled in the bitter flavor of artificial grape and tobacco, letting the nicotine still his shaking body.

 

He was too tired to roll a blunt when he got home. He slipped the box into his bedside drawer, promising himself that he could smoke once his exams were finished. He checked his phone before plugging it in and turning in for the night- no new texts.

 

He fell asleep as soon as he collapsed onto his unmade bed.

 

\--

 

“Damn, dude- you okay?”

 

Peter didn’t look at Ned. “M’Fine, just trying to get some last-minute studying in.”

 

Ned scooted his chair closer. “What are you talking about? You aren’t even looking at anything.”

 

He glanced at the textbook that he meant to study from, finding that he was yet to even crack the cover. _How long have I been staring at the table?_

 

“Seriously, Pete.” Peter didn’t want to see the concern on his friend’s face. “What’s going on with you, man?”

 

Peter offered Ned the most reassuring smile he could offer. “I’m good, Ned. I slept for about negative six minutes last night and I’m about to bomb my exams, but I’m good. Promise.”

 

“Same, dude. I’m so screwed for the AP micro exam.” Ned returned to eating. “You wanna do something after school today, or are you busy?”

 

Peter shook his head. “Sorry, I’m booked.” _No I’m not- I just want to go home and smoke._ “I’m gonna be with Tony for hours.” _I haven’t seen Tony in two weeks, he’s in California._ “Then I have to go home and have dinner with May.” _May doesn’t cook anymore._

 

\--

 

**iMessage**

**_Today, 1:19 PM_ **

 

_May: Just walked into your room. I’m disgusted. I don’t know how you managed to make this much of a fucking mess. It smells so fucking bad in here and I can’t even take a step because of the shit all over the floor. Give me your phone when you get home_

 

_May: Don’t you dare go patrolling tonight. You’re grounded until it’s spotless in here_

 

_May: I’m going out tonight. Don’t expect me home_

 

_Peter: wow you haven’t sent me a single text in three weeks and when you finally send me something its to yell at me about cleaning. nice_

 

_Peter: ik you’re having a hard time rn but would it kill you to actually talk to me_

 

Peter slipped his phone back into his pocket, ignoring the now-incessant buzzing of May’s texts. He would deal with the repercussions of talking back when he next saw her.

 

\--

 

The first thing Peter did when he got home was grab an empty pill bottle, the pack of swishers, and the small baggie from his bookbag.

 

Peter shuffled his playlist (entitled ‘songs to smoke and cry to’), bobbing his head along to the chill music as he worked. He tossed a couple of nugs into the pill bottle along with a few dimes, shaking the it until the coins crushed the weed into an even shake. He dumped the bud onto a textbook and pushed it into a line, flicking the sticky kief off of his fingers after picking out the seeds and stems. The baggie and pill bottle were returned to his bookbag.

 

He pulled the remaining Cigarillo out of the open pack, carefully picking a razor blade out of his desk drawer to split the wrap.

 

As soon as the cool metal of the blade brushed his fingers, he froze up.

 

_Don’t do it. You haven’t done it in three months. Please don’t be gross and give in._

 

With stiff hands, Peter sliced the cigar wrap open and dumped the tobacco into the pack. It took every fiber of his being to return the razor to its drawer.

 

\--

 

A short time later, Peter was blowing delicious plumes of smoke out of the window.

 

He wasn’t paying much attention to the episode of _Sex And The City_ that he put on, save for muttering the occasional “same” as Carrie Bradshaw mused about the difficulties of finding a good man in New York. Each pull of the blunt had him further and further away.

 

Although he tried to calmly succumb to it, being high made Peter feel nothing and everything at once. The numbing relaxation was a stark counter to the intense racing of his thoughts brought on by the bud. Sometimes it let him sleep, sometimes it made him so lax that he would think he was dying. Sometimes it spurred great ideas to ponder, sometimes it would make him question every aspect of his reality. If both of the latter occurred, Peter usually had a panic attack.

 

He was having trouble keeping focus. Maybe a whole blunt was too much.

 

Peter glanced at the home screen of his phone. No new messages from Tony or May; no new Snaps from his friends. He squeezed his eyes shut, the sudden rush of isolation making his stomach drop.

 

_Nobody fucks with me. I need to stop expecting attention._

 

The high was becoming more acute, agitating his body.

 

_I can’t even clean my room or study for a test. I’m disgustingly lazy._

 

He couldn’t open his eyes.

 

_I need it._

 

Peter was outside of himself as he stood up, stumbling to his desk.

 

_I need to._

 

It took him several tries to pinch the blade off of the base of the desk drawer.

 

_Do it._

 

He slid one side of his pajama pants down his leg and hiked up his boxers, positioning the blade over his hip.

 

_Yes._

 

The blade, dulled with use, tugged and caught at the skin. The cut was short and deep, just how he liked it. He repeatedly dragged it over old scar tissue.

 

_Finally._

 

He stopped after fourteen. The anxiety eased. The cuts were already closing into pink, bumpy scars.

 

He knocked the remaining half of the cigarillo out of the packet from yesterday. He didn’t bother to re-open his window as he rolled the tobacco-laden smoke around his mouth, finally able to sleep with nicotine clouding his head.

 

\--

 

_“Why is it not clean in here?!”_

 

Peter awoke with a start, wincing at the revolting hints of flavored tobacco and stale weed on his teeth. May was in his room, urgently picking up armfuls of clothes and shoving them into a basket.

 

“I ask you to do one thing,” she yelled. “ _One_ thing!”

 

Peter tensed up at the volume of her words. “May-”

 

“I’ve never seen anything like this!” She gestured at the mess. “I don’t know how you live like this! It makes me crazy!” She began to shove things into drawers.

 

 _“Hey!_ Don’t do that!” Peter shouted when she began to dump delicate drafts and blueprints into random places without regard.

 

She didn’t listen. “You’re lucky I’m not throwing this shit away!”

 

Peter lost it. _“Excuse_ me? That stuff isn’t shit! Those are things I’ve put a ton of effort into!”

 

She slammed the drawer shut. “You apparently don’t put effort into anything. This all looks like garbage to me.”

 

Peter’s face fell. May bit her lip.

 

She seemed to be coming down from her rage. “That’s not what I meant.”

 

He tried to calm his breathing as he grabbed his bookbag. “I’m depressed- I’m sorry that I can’t motivate myself to clean my fucking room. That’s apparently the important thing here,” he spat, voice harsh. With that, he shoved past her and made a straight shot to the front door.

 

\--

 

He had no idea where to go.

 

Peter ambled down the street, no destination in mind. The headphones clasped around his ears played no music. An offhand glance at his watch told him that it was nearly one AM.

 

He had never felt so alone He wished that Mr Stark were there; that they were walking to Psari for Greek food. He wanted to be heading to MJ’s house for a late-night _Futurama_ binge. Nothing sounded better than sitting on the floor with Ned, laughing and eating junk food until the sun came up.

 

He wanted May. He wanted love.

 

It wasn’t long before he tugged his mask on, webbing to the top of a random office building. He dialed Tony before he could stop himself.

 

It took a bit of time for Tony to answer. “Peter? It’s one AM  in New York, is something wrong?” The man asked, voice tinged with worry.

 

“Sorry, forgot about the difference. What’s the time over there?”

 

“Ten at night. Seriously, are you okay?” Tony’s voice was growing more urgent by the second.

 

Peter suddenly felt as if he was unable to talk. “Tony?” He croaked, not realizing that he was crying until he spoke.

 

“Kid?”

 

Peter breathed, choppy and rough. “I’m so fucking depressed.”

 

“Pete…” Tony sighed into the receiver, more empathetic than exasperated. “What’s going on, bud?”

 

Peter let himself cry. Tony was silent.

 

“It’s just-” Peter cut himself off with another sob- “It’s just a lot, y’know?”

 

Tony’s voice was soft; understanding. “I know.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Peter scrubbed the tears from his cheeks and forced his tone to level out. “I’ll tell you about it when you get home tomorrow.”

 

Tony took a second to respond. “I’ll see you soon.”

 

\--

 

Peter laid on the roof for hours- four, to be exact.

 

The first hour was spent with a blunt in hand. The offices below him was deserted for the night, and the building was so high up that he wasn’t worried about being caught. He listened to his sad playlist and cried some more.

 

The high was pleasant for the next hour. Staring into the grey sky with nothing but his thoughts was oddly calming.

 

He was steadily coming down from his high by the time the third hour hit. He waited until he was completely sober before smoking again.

 

He was five hits into the second blunt when he heard the propellers of Tony’s suit descend behind him.

 

Peter whipped around, too shocked to try and hide the blunt. The nanotech of the suit retreated into Tony’s chest. His mentor stared at him before he realized was Peter was doing. He sighed and took a seat next to Peter.

 

Peter was shell shocked. Tony raised his thumb and forefinger to Peter. “Give me a hit,” he demanded.

 

Peter didn’t move. Tony took the blunt out of his hand, hitting it and coughing only slightly.

 

He finally collected himself. “Uh-”

 

Tony cut him off. “This probably makes me a bad influence, huh?” He stopped for another pull. “I didn’t expect you to be a stoner, kid. Trust me, you’re in big trouble, but I’ll give you a break for now.”

 

Peter shut his mouth again.

 

“What’s wrong?” Tony handed the blunt back to Peter, raising his brows when the kid hit it like like a pro.

 

He ghosted his hit, shrugging.

 

“You do know. Just tell me.”

 

One more pull, and he passed it to Tony. “It’s bullshit.”

 

Tony winced when the acrid smoke hit his lungs. “Doubt it,” he said, voice thick.

 

“That’s not what I meant. The scenario is bullshit, not the severity of it.”

 

“You’re too articulate.” Tony already seemed a bit stoned after the few hits he took.

 

“It’s May.” When Tony’s eyes widened, he was quick to wave his hand dismissively. “There’s nothing wrong with her, don’t worry.”

 

“Then what’s the problem?”

 

Peter gazed blankly over the tops of neighboring buildings, blowing a heavy stream of smoke into the air.

 

“Peter-”

 

“It’s the anniversary of Ben’s death in three days.”

 

Tony was silent. Peter turned his head to his mentor, eyes glazed over without a hint of emotion. “Please don’t start saying you’re sorry or something, that’s not the problem.”

 

Tony chose his words carefully. “What were you saying about May?”

 

Peter seemed suddenly nervous, offering Tony the blunt. He refused it.

 

“She… gets a certain way around this time of year.” He extinguished the roach on the concrete.

 

“A ‘certain way’?” Tony asked.

 

“Yeah,” Peter confirmed. “Like, obsessive, I guess?”

 

“Obsessive?”

 

“Will you stop repeating everything I say?”

 

Tony shrugged. “Whatever, I’m high. Stop using big words.”

 

Peter chuckled at Tony’s lack of a tolerance. His frown quickly returned thereafter. “But, yeah; obsessive. This year, it’s cleaning. Last year, it was studying Tuscan culture. She’ll hyperfixate on something and won’t talk about anything else.” His voice lowered. “She won’t talk to me.”

 

Tony pressed his lips into a tight line. “That’s… unhealthy.”

 

“It’s not her fault.” Peter laid on his back, arm thrown over his eyes.

 

“There’s no excuse for ignoring your kid, Pete- trust me, I would know.” He glanced at what he could see of Peter’s face. The kid’s jaw clenched.

 

“You okay, Pete?” _He’s not telling me something._

 

Peter rolled onto his side, facing away from Tony. “I relapsed.”

 

Tony’s breath stopped abruptly, stomach coiling up. _Oh, fuck._

 

Tony knew about Peter’s dependency on self harm. The kid got a full-body scan one past visit to the compound, and FRIDAY had reported ‘multiple self-inflicted abrasions on the left hip and thigh’. Peter burst into tears and ran out the door. It took him a week to work up the courage to see Tony again and open up to him.

 

“Oh, Pete,” Tony cooed, pulling Peter to his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

 

Peter allowed the hug, taking solace in the hand rubbing at his shoulder blade. “I just want it to stop,” he whimpered.

 

“You need to tell May how you feel, Peter.” It wasn’t much of a suggestion.

 

“I already tried. She just screamed at me more.”

 

“Then she needs grief counseling,” Tony insisted. “This isn’t your fault.”

 

“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.” Peter sounded defeated.

 

“Too bad- this is taking a huge toll on you. We need to figure this out.” The words were firm, but Tony kept his voice sympathetic.

 

“Can we just talk about it in the morning?” Peter tried again.

 

“Fine.” Tony grabbed his phone, struggling to unlock it. “You better hope Happy’s awake to drive us to the compound- I’m not flying under the influence, and you’re not shooting a single web tonight.”

 

Peter looked like he wanted to say something.

 

“What is it, Pete?”

 

He shrugged, smiling a bit. “Or we could smoke again?”

 

Tony scoffed, opening Happy’s contact info. “Nice try, Tommy Chong.”

**Author's Note:**

> fic requests are open on my [tumblr!](https://iron-arachnid.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
